


Family Values

by dragthing



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon: don't know don't care, Complicated Relationships, Enemies to Coparents, Genderfuck, Incest, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Other, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 08:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18891220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragthing/pseuds/dragthing
Summary: Tony is trying to make his way back to a home he's not sure even exists anymore, with a couple of blue, murder-happy aliens he managed to pick up along the way.Turns out, Titan is a loooooong way from Earth.





	Family Values

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter carries the following warnings:
> 
> implied threat of sexual assault; pregnancy; descriptive bodily injury; ptsd; panic attacks; violent assault

Junkyards were a universal phenomenon: Tony found that incredibly relieving. Surrounded by heaps of trash Tony felt the momentary comfort of home, which he decided not to explore too closely because it was also incredibly depressing. Like, was he relieved to find that many societies of sentient life accumulated massive piles of broken junk, thereby suggesting it wasn't a flaw in human systems but that pollution was an inevitable byproduct of technology? Or, was it because this giant pile of useless, metal objects reminded him of all the over-engineered, highly specialized gadgets they sold on the shopping channels he’d watched to get through the worst nights, the ones he hadn’t been able to drink away. Tony tossed the device he'd been considering aside—he'd decided it was most probably a giant garlic press designed by a species with 3 elongated fingers and an opposing tentacle—and continued rummaging.

Despite his attempts to focus on imaginary, alien physiology, now that he’d broken out the ‘H-word’ Tony was definitely depressed. Damnit, he'd been doing well and had really relaxed into the whole “omg alien planet!” sightseeing game. He'd marvelled at the strange angles of the buildings’ girders and the odd, orangish sheen to all of the materials (scans indicated that the unknown metal had been fused with equally mysterious organic compounds: somehow altering its tensile strength? It’d have to, to enable some of that impossible-seeming architecture). He’d strolled through the market, tasting a couple of fruits once FRIDAY had determined which foodstuffs were likely compatible with the human gastrointestinal system. He’d taken a selfie in front of a vaguely impressive monument commemorating the Consolidation, an apparently monumental event that had taken place in 3256. 

Tony had carefully not paid too much attention to the fact that there were far less people than the city had obviously been built for, and how those buildings that had seemed deserted were already being eaten by tangled, orange vines (were the chlorophyll chemical compounds just orange here, or was this an effect of the growing medium? Tony had clipped a few samples to take back to his shipboard lab). He had done his best to be extra friendly with the market vendors and to not mind the suspicious looks. Hostility towards strangers in times of societal collapse was another universal phenomenon, Tony supposed. He wondered if they’d built the monument to the dusted yet. Probably not anything to snap home about, a great plinth supporting a great mass of nothing.

This had been the first port in four to allow them entry. After the Dusting virtually every planet had been closed to outsiders, except for those outposts supplied from elsewhere or those whose enforcement bodies were too crippled to keep ships out. Needless to say, an intense mistrust of outsiders—and a severe uptake in the rate of piracy—had been building in the months they'd been picking their way across this quadrant. Plint fell into the former category: though it had not quite descended into anarchy, its lack of a few, key natural resources necessitated they stay open for business. Nebula had said that historically, the moon had hosted a major interstellar market. Tony had gotten the impression it was of the shady variety, judging by her familiarity with it and sure enough they'd been allowed to dock though they didn't carry any government's or consortium's trading seal.

Aside from letting them land, no one seemed particularly willing to talk to the visitors once it was established that they didn't have anything valuable to trade. Nebula went about seeing who she might threaten for fuel, while Tony had taken himself off to find a replacement for the part that had snapped out last week. Tony “I want it I got it” Stark, with no real concept of dollar value or exchange rates on his own planet, had no way of knowing if 16 million credits for a new manifold was a good deal. He couldn't afford it anyway because he didn't have any money beyond the few credit chits he’d found in the console of the Benetar’s cockpit. Tony thought it might be the first time he had been unable to buy something outright. Outer space: a universe of new experiences awaits.

At least his innate, personal charm still translated through FRIDAY's updated modules, because after witnessing Tony's emotional breakdown at the last vendor, a three-eyed benefactor had pointed him in the direction of the spaceport's scrap yard. It had been picked over, but it seemed fuel manifolds were a standard-ish component in spaceship engines and Tony was going to be able to find a broken one here in the yard that would work, with a few repairs and adaptations to the intake system.

He was also likely to find himself a bit of trouble with the local junkyard denizens: Tony could hear them, back further in.

“Well what are we going to do with her?”

“Kill it. It's a cadaver and not supposed to be breathing. I dunno why it should start now.”

“Do you really think we're going to find a buyer for another corpse? I mean it's not like they're hard to come by, these days.”

“It's not just `another corpse` the thaumaturgical resonance is in the 5000tz range, far beyond any body we've ever picked up. It's a magical corpse. Worth a fortune in parts.”

“Yeah, ok, I'm just saying that Diniyar dusted and they're not exactly lining up in the streets for magic corpses these days: we don't have another buyer. Maybe we should just keep her around for a little bit, get a little use out of her…"

Aaaand that was Tony's cue.

He touched down after blasting the last one back into a pile of alien junk. When he turned to see who he'd saved this time, he momentarily and confusingly thought he'd rescued Nebula before he registered the horns and the hair. And baby belly. Yeah! He'd saved a pregnant lady! That was always a great feeling, and worth extra hero points besides.

Tony's self-congratulatory mood sobered as he took in the battered alien before him. The lady was in rough shape. She was leaning heavily against a burned out piece of bulkhead, her arms wrapped around around her belly. She was frozen, staring at Tony with wide, bloody eyes. Tony grimly noted the heavy bruising around her neck—either bruising or these blue ones came mottled—and thought that this intervention might rank among his better ones.

Tony retracted Iron Man's visor so she could see his face and made all the usual, calming, non-threatening statements to reassure her. It didn't seem to help: the pregnant lady stayed absolutely frozen, staring at Tony's revealed face. Every line of her hyper-tense posture announced her expectation of an immanent beat down. Fuck.

Tony backed off a bit, he'd long ago learned the exaggerated gestures necessary to convey 'not threatening' with a violently imposing metal suit. “Hey okay, I'm just going to stand over here. I'm not going to hurt you, lady. I was just doing some shopping,” Tony produced exhibit A, the manifold, “when I heard your friends. Well, they're probably not your friends, judging by the whole ‘let's kill her for parts’ scheme. I mean, I hope they're not your friends, they seem like shitheads. Anyway, damsel-in-distress is kinda my thing. My name’s Tony Stark by the way, of course that means nothing to you but rest assured Tony Stark does not beat up pregnant ladies or harm them in any way. Um. Nor does he press his aid upon those who do not desire it, so if you want me to jet, I'll jet. But also, you look like shit—just a little bit worse for the wear—so I’m offering to escort you somewhere a little less,” Tony gestured at the junk, “um, grimey.”

Holy fuck, Tony was babbling, he sounded insane. Maybe he was insane, that was a distinct possibility at this point after being stuck for weeks on an empty ship with bat-shit crazy Nebula, surrounded by the belongings of the previous, now-dusted crew. The blue alien was still staring at him—Tony had thought those blood red orbs were damaged but they were tracking him, so they might just come that way—and shifted a little to speak.

“Yggr…” her voice was broken, that was little more than a croak. Seems like it hurt too: her hand flew up to her throat and that’s when she fell apart. Both hands on her throat—oh yeah, she was hyperventilating for sure—as she staggered up off the bulkhead she’d been plastered against. And Tony had been right, it had been holding her up because her knees were giving out and Tony couldn’t hold his distance and then had an armful of panicking, pregnant alien.

Tony, attempting to keep her focused on breathing with him, was not at all reassured to discover that trauma produced universally similar responses.

***

Some time later, Tony helped Blueberry—as he'd named her belly—through the hatch of the Benetar. She was in a bad way. After she’d recovered somewhat from her panic attack, Tony’d led her from the junkyard and into the streets. Blueberry had been pretty out of it, staring blankly about her and not seeming to recognize any of it. She hadn’t indicated that there was somewhere she could be taken to. She hadn’t responded, or given Tony her name when he’d asked, though it was possible that her voice box was damaged. With an up close view of her neck and her throat-related trauma episode, Tony was pretty sure she’d been throttled recently. He didn’t know of a safe place he could bring her besides the ship. At least he might be able to offer some medical assistance. Could he? Maybe Nebula knew some alien first aid.

Blueberry did not seem to calm down much once they’d boarded the ship. Her eyes never left Tony as he moved about the cabin, though she did accept the glass of water he poured for her. She sipped it cautiously, but though she winced a bit on the swallow, she worked her way through it. She was clearly thirsty.

“Yup you’ve got it. Tony Stark is here to help, not to hurt. Here,” Tony poured out another glass, “drink some more water.” He slid it across the table. Blueberry reached for it slowly. “Can you speak?” Tony demonstrated towards his throat. “I mean you don’t have to, either way, just wanted to know your name.”

Blueberry tilted her head a little as she stared: consideringly, Tony thought. Her eyes were terrifyingly full of red, it made them very difficult to parse emotion from, all Tony could think of was “RAGERAGERAGE” but he didn’t think that was it, she probably just naturally had freaky red eyes. Which means they weren’t freaky, of course. Suddenly faced with a myriad of different, alien life forms, Tony had been practicing challenging his automatic responses to physical difference. And once you got past the scary eyes, Blueberry was gorgeous up close, all cheek and wild hair, perky little horns and intriguing tattoos. Not that Tony was inappropriately oogling the battered pregnant lady, nope.

Said pregnant lady was gesturing towards her throat, shaking her head. Yup, that voice box was out of commission.

“Why don’t you come with me to our medbay, I can take a look at your throat and maybe find you a losenge?” Blueberry waved another universal classic, the ‘no need, I’ll be fine’, which was clearly untrue; but Tony supposed he respected her reluctance to follow him deeper into a strange ship. “Yup okay, no problem, you’re going to be fine. We’ll just sit here for a bit until you feel able to get back on your feet and out to your, um, home or whatever. How about some food? No, probably not. A smoothie, you want a smoothie?” As Tony poked around the nutritional supplements he heard the outer hatches open.

“Nebula has returned, sir.” FRIDAY announced Tony's shipmate's arrival. “And she was successful in her resupply: the port's refueling system has transferred 37 cells into the fuel hold.” Tony didn't really take Nebula for the pregnant-lady-saving type, she didn't have an altruistic bone/cybernetic implant in her body. Maybe roughing up the gas station attendant had put her in a good enough mood to tolerate a little, heroic side quest.

Tony had moved to the door to intercept his shipmate, hoping to soften the introduction and head off the inevitable threats and glowering looks, so he didn't catch exactly what set the whole thing off, or where his barely-clad 'side quest' had been hiding those knives. But it did put him in a good position to keep Nebula from slitting her throat, once Blueberry had launched herself across the room and been immediately and ignominiously dropped.

Fucking murder-happy aliens. Tony Stark hated space.

**Author's Note:**

> Kay, we all know Marvel Cinema is a collection shitty writers who produce shitty, inconsistent propaganda. How then, does it manage to produce such marvelous fanfic? This fic is dedicated to a near-decade worth of works that have seen me through a lot of shitty times. I hope it fills a couple of holes you might need filling.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, one advance warning: I am a complete cynic and despise romance. This fic is going somewhere specific, but you might not like what happens along the way.


End file.
